Hopeless
by vargrimar
Summary: "Why am I doing this again?" he asks. "You're doing it because you're hopeless." "Yeah, cheers. I was hoping for more of a pep talk." Another sigh. "You're doing it because she's got your heart in a hand grenade."


Despite the latent, buzzing current of _oh Christ what the hell am I even doing_, Jamison takes inventory and gives himself a final once over.

Shirt? Check.

Scrubbed hands? Check.

Boot tied? Check.

Flowers? Che—wait.

His stomach drops like a stone and he whirls on his heel, a lance of panic shoved straight through the slats of his ribs. He glances to his bed, to the end-chest, to the desk, the chair, to the boxes of miscellaneous wires and casings because they had been _right there_, he's sure of it; how on earth could he have possibly lost them between pulling on a shirt and running a comb through his bloody hair?

"Roadhog!" he shouts, and then he's scrambling on his hands and knees, shoving aside another box as he looks beneath his bed. Why can't he find them? Flowers don't just disappear like that. "Oi! Roadhog! Get over here!"

Heavy steps tread the corridor. "You ready yet?"

"Yeah, I'm—I mean _no_, but—well, I was! I thought I was, but then I sort of lost track of—" Jamison pauses his frantic search and glances upward. "Oh."

Roadhog stands outside the alcove opening, the brilliant bouquet of red roses resting in the centre of his giant palm. His mask conceals everything that might be considered a facial expression, but the deep, drawing sigh denotes an eye roll.

"You left them with me, you idiot," says Roadhog.

Relief drowns Jamison in a torrent. He gingerly takes the bouquet with his good hand, brings it to his chest, and then promptly melts back against the bedframe, his muscles malleable and pliant with adrenaline.

"Why am I doing this again?" he asks.

"You're doing it because you're hopeless."

"Yeah, cheers. I was _hoping_ for more of a pep talk."

Another sigh. "You're doing it because she's got your heart in a hand grenade."

The soft scent of the roses picks at muddled memories. He tries not to smile because he's got to steel himself for this—this is serious; it needs to be perfect; she never settles for less—but he can't help it.

"Too right she does," he says.

Everything feels warm and bright.

* * *

This might have been a terrible idea.

Jamison plasters himself against the wall outside the workshop door, his heart an uproarious cannonade. All he needs to do is go in, give her the flowers, and leave. That's it. That's all. Simple. Get in, get out. It wouldn't take more than a minute. Thirty seconds, tops. He could probably do it in fifteen if he made a run for it.

Good Christ. He's performed heists way more complicated than this. He's stolen the crown jewels of England. He's wreaked havoc across an entire continent. Why the hell is walking through a bloody door so damn difficult? He's _sweating_, for God's sake.

"C'mon, mate," he says into the roses. "C'mon. You can do this. Just—go. Just go in there and hand 'em over. Easy. Nothing to it. Just—here, I got these for you, then bolt. C'mon."

His body, however, seems intent on staying right where it is.

As he swallows down a colourful curse, the workshop door slides open and Satya steps through with an air of casual elegance. Her black hair has been spun into a perfect braid, the pastel blue fabric of a sleek strap dress complementing the vivid aqua of her crystalline earrings. Subtle perfume snaps his spine straight, and he takes a panicked step forward so that he can shove the flowers behind his back because—just, she wasn't supposed to leave yet! How is he supposed to do this now? She's got the advantage, he's not ready, she looks fantastic and he's only got this stupid skull shirt, he's not even—

"Oh! Hello," says Satya, pausing on her heel—because of course she's noticed him, of course she has; she's got the keen perception of a predatory bird and he's very certain she could pare him down to his barest components if she so wished, and—

"G'day," he says, trying for a smile. "Uh, right, listen, I know you're busy, but—"

"I'm not," she says. "In fact, I've just finished my work for the day. I've made considerable progress on the photon barrier I spoke of during the latest meeting. I expect it to be combat-ready within the week."

A part of him stutters. Hadn't she mentioned that thing not even a day ago? He knows she can create anything she bloody well pleases with that techie arm of hers, but God, she's _fast_.

"That's—" Jamison scrabbles for a word. "That's—good! That's good. Right. Well, uh, now that I know you're not busy, I'd, erm—I've got—"

He works a swallow and scratches above his right ear and stares and Jesus Christ it's like his brain is a sieve and all his vocabulary has drained through it in a single go leaving stupid noises that make no sense and he's _still sweating_, what the _fuck_.

And Satya, prim and dignified and drop-dead gorgeous, simply folds her hands in front of the soft blue of her dress and looks at him with patient expectance—like this is normal, like this is something she's got used to over the months, and—well, he supposes that wouldn't be very far from the truth, now, would it? Not like this is the first time he's been speechless.

C'mon, he tells himself. C'mon, now or never.

In a flustered knot of courage, Jamison thrusts the flowers at her and averts his eyes. He can't bear to look. He can't. He's not that brave. He's robbed royalty and snubbed authority and he's still not brave enough to watch. He's—

… hopeless, yeah. That's a word. _The_ word. The one lone granule left in the sieve. Hopeless.

After what seems like the better part of a century, the roses leave his hands. He stands there for a moment, stunned, and then presses himself back against the wall, still not looking (he's a coward) and desperately wishing he'd brought one of his empty shells because he needs something to busy his fingers, needs something to work out this shivery adrenaline—

"These are exceptional. Beautiful colour. Wonderful scent. Perfectly arranged. Not one out of place."

The gentle touch of her hand on his yanks his attention back toward her face. Satya offers him a fond smile, her hazel-gold eyes all aglitter—and right there, yes, that's how he knows it's sincere. It's the cute crinkles by her eyes, the little curve at the corner of her mouth when she tries not to let it spread further.

He's certain his heart means to climb up his throat with how hard it's beating.

"Thank you," she says. It's quiet. Private. Tender. "This was very thoughtful."

"No worries!" Great, he's got words again. "I just thought—well, it's today, y'know? And you're supposed to, uh, give things on days like today, and I—I wanted to. Um. Give things."

Satya glances at the bouquet held in the crook of her prosthetic arm. "Well, consider your things given. They are very much appreciated."

"Uh, good," he says, because of course his vocabulary would regress again, he doesn't know why he's surprised, and—oh, she's leaning in now, going up on her tiptoes, what—

With her free hand, Satya tugs him down by the shirt collar and presses a kiss to his cheek.

It's warm. And somehow that warmth is better than anything he's ever felt. Better than the percussive heat-blast from a heap of charges, better than the blistering plumes of aftermath smoke, better than the bone-deep insistence of a hot bath. Is it supposed to feel like his heart's caught fire? Maybe it is. He hasn't got a clue.

Her eyes find him once more. "Have you eaten lunch?"

"Erm, no? Don't think so," he replies, because he genuinely cannot remember and his stomach is in knots anyway, so it doesn't really matter.

"Would you care to join me?"

"I'd—" His knee feels like it might give out. Words. _Words_. "Yes," he manages, thunderstruck.

Another smile. "Excellent. I will meet you in the hangar in fifteen minutes."

"The—the hangar? What for?"

"While the watchpoint canteen does have adequate meals, I think somewhere else would be more appropriate." Satya turns on the ball of her foot and heads back into the workshop. "It is today, after all."

Once the door snicks shut, Jamison slams a metal palm over his chest and tries his best to breathe. It takes a great deal of strength not to drip into a puddle on the chrome floor, although while he's in the vein of puddles, he's quite sure his back has been drenched. Maybe he's got time to find another shirt. Or towel himself off. Or, you know, make himself infinitely more presentable now that he's apparently got himself a lunch date.

Roadhog is right, he thinks. He's bloody hopeless. Completely and totally. But she didn't seem to mind, right? She couldn't have done. Not with that smile. Not with how she'd kissed his cheek.

And maybe—

Jamison scrubs his face with his hand and staggers back toward the barracks, feeling trembly and jittery and rather like he's just downed several shots of espresso.

Maybe she's a bit hopeless, too.


End file.
